


hide me in a hollow sound (happy evermore)

by blueblueelectricblue



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Bed-Wetting, Neurodiverse Character, Non-Sexual Age Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:34:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23583166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueblueelectricblue/pseuds/blueblueelectricblue
Summary: Helena wakes up after a nightmare to a wet bed and a Harley Quinn in her hallway. It doesn't take long for Harley to take charge...or for her to find out Helena's a Little.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 92





	hide me in a hollow sound (happy evermore)

It doesn’t matter how good of a day it’s been for Helena — or how bad of a day, either. Her brain sends her The Dream seemingly at random. That’s how she thinks of it: The Dream, in all capitals, because it’s the only one she’s had for years. At first, it was just a nightmare she had a lot, and it was to be expected from a child who had seen so much; even the taciturn made guy who’d whisked her off to remote Sicily and his equally taciturn family had understood that quite well. But a decade and a half of putting off bedtime, drinking too much coffee, setting multiple alarms on her phone to interrupt REM sleep — it’s all been to no avail, because that nightmare has grown to monstrous proportions, looming over her evenings and paralyzing her with dread as Helena brushes her teeth and washes her face, her turned-down bed a yawning void rather than the haven it should be.

Most of the time, she wakes up in the mornings and experiences a wave of relief so powerful it makes her shudder, her toes curling from the force of it. But sometimes…sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night hyperventilating, scrambling for the light switch, heart pounding so hard she can hear it in her ears, the sheets underneath her drenched and freezing and stinking of ammonia.

Tonight is one of those nights.

It’s almost three in the morning and Helena’s too exhausted even to cry about it, the way she might otherwise. She moans into her sweaty, hot pillow, her hands clawing into fists and pounding on the mattress a couple of times before Helena can make herself get up to take a shower, wishing not for the first time that someone else could just take care of it and simultaneously sort of hating herself for that wish. It’s fine. She’ll be fine. It’s just, _ugh_. At least her sheets and clothes can wait for a few minutes; the first thing Helena did when she moved into this apartment was get a medical-grade mattress protector, grateful beyond belief for the existence of online ordering. The internet has made so many things about her life so much easier.

Once she’s clean and in a new tank top and shorts, Helena strips the bed and gathers up everything to take it to the little laundry room set in the back of her pantry. Once she has the washer going, she’ll just grab a few essentials from her room and sleep in the guest bed and throw it all into the dryer in the morning, just like she usually does when this happens.

Perhaps she _shouldn't_ be surprised to find Harley in her hallway, dressed for bed in an oversized Gotham City Sirens t-shirt and her hair in braids, pinned around her head like a demented milkmaid. One thing Helena has learned over the past couple of months is that if Harley wants to show up and hang out, she just does it whether or not you've been consulted, let alone agreed to it. They've _all_ learned, although with how much Renee complains in group chat (and over Skype...and the phone...and in person) one would think she got the most random visits. That honor has actually gone to Dinah, who complains a _little_ bit less. So far, Helena’s been lucky enough to avoid one problem colliding with another, but she guesses her luck has run out. It was bound to happen sometime, although knowing that doesn’t really make it any better.

Helena realizes, even without checking in a mirror, that she must look like a deer caught in a Hummer's LED glare, clutching the wadded pile of wet sheets and clothes to her chest. "Uh. Harley. You’re…here."

"Heya," Harley chirps like nothing is out of the ordinary. "The kid's sleepin’ over at a friend’s and I got tired'a rattling around the place by myself. I was gonna make you breakfast. Surprise!" She grins.

"Oh." Helena forces herself to fix her gaze on Harley's eyebrows. It's a trick she'd learned ages ago to make people think she’s looking them in the eye, but that's a whole lot easier to do when she's at full capacity. And she definitely is…not that right now. "Isn’t it kind of early for breakfast?"

"I meant later. Why doncha finish that up and we can snuggle?" Harley's own eyes never flicker down toward the bundle, not even once.

Helena blinks slowly, unable to muster more of a physical reaction because her brain is currently working overtime to process everything that’s happening. " _Huh_?”

"You and me and the guest bedroom, chickadee, under a big pile of blankets. You keep this place fuckin’ _freezing_. I was just rummaging in the linen closet for some.”

“I — you’re kinda in my way,” Helena blurts out, “so could you move? Please?” she adds, a beat too slowly. _Well, fucked that up again_.

“Oh, sure!” Harley, to her credit, swings to the side so that Helena can pass.

Unfortunately, she also decides to follow Helena to the laundry alcove. And _keeps talking_. Helena can’t keep up with it, needing to focus on her task at hand, but she finds that saying “Mm-hmm,” and “Yeah,” and “Sure,” and “Okay” and stuff like that tends to work well when Harley’s on a tangent. The monologue’s rapid flow ebbs to more of a lazy creek when Harley gets distracted by a jar of harissa paste in the pantry. Helena turns around when she finishes getting the load of laundry started, expecting to find Harley staring at her, but nope; Harley’s still reading the list of ingredients on the label.

Which is probably why Helena finds it so easy — _shockingly_ easy, really — to say, “So, that’s it? You’re not gonna say anything about it?”

It’s decidedly less easy when she realizes Harley didn’t actually _hear_ her say that over the sound of water rushing into the washing machine.

“Say again?” Harley tilts her head, cupping one ear with her hand with an exaggerated flourish.

“Nevermind.”

“Aw, come on.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, I wanna know!”

Helena scrubs her hand through her still-damp hair. “I _said_ , aren’t you gonna say anything about it?”

Harley’s eyebrows rise much further than Helena would have thought possible on a human being. “About what?”

If it weren’t Harley, Helena might think she’s being made fun of. Who knows, though. Maybe she is being made fun of. Wouldn’t be the first time that it happened and she didn’t realize it until later. “What do you mean, _about what_.” She gestures to the washing machine behind her. “About _that_. Jesus Christ.”

Harley’s mouth scrunches in apparent confusion. It’s actually…kind of cute? “Why, was I supposed to?”

“Most people would.” Helena pauses. “I think.”

“Yeah, well, most people don’t have any manners. It’s rude to bring up an obvious trauma response to the person havin’ it unless they’re askin’ for help,” Harley replies.

Helena pauses again, electing to keep her mouth shut for now. Talking to neurotypical people is hard enough, but Harley’s so unpredictable that it’s even harder to talk to her and know what to do. If she stays quiet, Harley might elaborate. Or maybe she’ll just go haring off on another tangent and forget all about all of this, which would be even better.

“I mean, I’d be surprised if you _didn’t_ have trouble sleepin’,” Harley continues. She doesn’t _sound_ like she’s making fun of Helena, not now. She sounds…warm and friendly. Helena can sort of understand why she was such a popular psychiatrist. “Very few children experience somethin’ like you did without _some_ kind of a lastin’ effect on their adult lives. But I’m sure you’ve talked about that with your therapist.”

“I don’t have a therapist.”

Harley frowns. “What? Why the fuck not?”

“It wasn’t really. A thing.”

“Nobody ever took you to one? Not even right afterwards?”

Helena shrugs. “Sicilian mob family. I spent a lot of time in Confession.”

“Well, _that’s_ no good. First thing tomorrow after breakfast, I’m settin’ you up with my friend Leslie. She knows the best therapists in the city,” Harley tells her.

That sounds more ominous to Helena than reassuring, but she decides to just nod as if she agrees.

Harley _beams_. “It’ll work! Pinkie promise.”

She extends one perfectly manicured pinkie finger, which Helena takes with slight bewilderment with her own, hoping Harley doesn’t notice how the nail is bitten to the quick. Other girls at school had done this kind of stuff all the time, but not her, not even before the…the Thing happened. She didn’t have any friends then, so it wasn’t a big adjustment afterward to live in exile with only professional killers and their elderly female relatives for company.

As Harley enthusiastically shakes their pinkies, Helena wonders if this is how it always feels, when someone is touching you who _wants_ to be touching you. Because oh, it does feel good. So good, as a matter of fact, that Helena finds it hard to let go even once it’s clear that the moment has gone sailing past them. But Harley doesn’t look at her like she’s being weird or inappropriate or rude. Sure, her grin might go a little sideways, but there’s no crinkled-up moue of disgust or sudden snatching-back of personal space.

“Um,” Helena says, for lack of anything better to say.

“Aren’tcha tired?” Harley asks. “I know _I’m_ tired. And cold. Jesus, would it kill you to put the thermostat above 65? C’mon, let’s go to bed.” She starts half-leading, half-dragging Helena into the guest room by their still-linked pinkie fingers — yet another physical sensation new to her. She’s seen women do this at bars and clubs on their way to the bathroom or outside for a smoke, giggling and affectionate, but never experienced it herself. Is this what it’s like to be one of them?

“But. Um. What about.” Her voice hitches to a momentary halt, overwhelmed by all these new sensations piling on top of her at a moment when she’s already overloaded and ready for calm and quiet. “B-blankets,” Helena manages finally, hating how stuttery and stupid she sounds.

“Oh, right! I forgot all about ‘em,” Harley replies and drops her hand to dart back into the hallway and do the rummaging in the linen closet she’d been talking about.

Helena can’t identify what she’s feeling right away and is surprised when her analysis comes up with: _disappointment_. That, too, is new. Not the feeling of disappointment itself — she’s well used to it — but this particular context. Not that she’s left with it for long, because Harley soon comes tripping back into the room with an armful of blankets.

“Where’d you get all these? They’re so _nice_ ,” Harley says, dropping them onto the bed in a heap.

“Uh. I dunno. Target?” It wasn’t Target; Helena just doesn’t remember, and she’s too tired to think of a better lie. And they aren’t particularly nice blankets, really. But, whatever.

“Target is _awesome_.”

“Yeah.” It’s fine.

Harley shakes out a blanket in Helena’s general direction, grinning. “Do I have to do this all by myself? C’mon! Move your ass!”

Helena takes one and starts unfolding it, then thinks better and drapes it over her arm, grabbing for a pillow.

“Hey, what’re you doing?”

“I think I should sleep on the couch.”

Harley’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit, I was just _kiddin’_ , Bertinelli. I’m sorry. Stay here.”

“This…this is weird, Harley. We don’t actually need to share a bed.”

“No, we don’t _need_ to,” she replies, “but wouldn’t it be that much more fun?”

Helena blinks a few times as she processes. “I – I don’t know.”

“Whaddaya mean, you don’t know? You never doubled up with another girl before, like on a school trip or a sleepover or at camp or anything like that?”

She shakes her head. “No. Never.”

“Then isn’t right now the best time to find out just how fun it is?”

On the one hand, it _would_ be nice to engage in some real human contact for once. But on the other hand, Helena’s sofa is pretty comfortable, _and_ her bedroom is on the way to the living room. She could pop in there, grab what she needs, then dive onto the sofa and snuggle under the blanket that she’s still got in her hands before Harley’s any the wiser.

Harley does that little head-tilt thing again.

“…what.”

“What’re you _not_ saying?” Harley asks.

“Nothing.”

“That doesn’t look like a nothin’ face to me.”

“Well, that’s it, there _is_ nothing to say.”

“I don’t think so.” Harley draws out the “I”.

“Doesn’t matter what you think.”

“Sure it does!” She grins.

“Are you ever gonna leave it alone if I don’t tell you?”

“Nah, probably not.”

Helena rakes her hand down her face and huffs an irritated sigh. Exhausted, and with an already limited reserve of ability to interact with other people for long without being prepared for it, she’s getting dangerously close to a meltdown. “Then you cannot say _anything_ , Harley. To _anyone_.”

“Mum’s the word!”

“I fucking mean it,” she snaps. “I don’t wanna see this all over your Twitter or Snapchat or whatever.”

“Of course I wouldn’t!” Harley looks genuinely shocked. “ _Jesus_ , whaddaya you take me for?”

“How would I know?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Later, Helena isn’t quite sure whether that came out of Harley’s mouth out of genuine emotion or whether it was specifically calculated to break her down, but either way, it has the same effect. “It’s — it’s just easier if I. Show you. Hang on.” She drops the blanket she’d been holding onto the bed and dashes back into her own bedroom, returning with her phone, Pusheen plushie (the biggest one she’d found in the store display, as a matter of fact, for maximum softness against her sensitive skin), and a bright-purple pacifier, all of which she dumps on top of the discarded blanket.

Harley’s quiet for what feels like way, way too long.

Helena’s hands curl, short square nails digging into her palms, in the effort to not start hitting herself. _No, not now, not in front of her._

“So. This is your copin’ mechanism, huh?” Harley finally asks, glancing up into Helena’s eyes.

Helena glances away. “Yeah.”

“I wouldn’ta pegged you as an ageplayer, if I’m bein’ honest.”

“Bully for you,” she mutters.

Harley puts her hands on her hips. “You think I haven’t seen it all? I used to be the resident psychiatrist at fuckin’ _Arkham_ , for Chrissakes. This barely even registers. It’s a little surprisin’, sure, but if it helps you and it isn’t hurtin’ anyone else, then my opinion doesn’t really matter here, does it?”

All of a sudden, Helena’s throat feels very, very tight, and her vision has gone all funny and blurry, and she grabs for Pusheen, folding herself around the plush animal. She’d never expected to reveal this to anyone, let alone Harley Quinn of all people, and Harley’s being _so nice_ and _not crazy_ about it, and Helena has never had a meltdown because of someone being kind to her before, but here she is. It’s not _just_ because Harley’s being kind. It’s that she’s being kind on top of everything else that’s occurred in the past hour, and it’s already so easy to reach overload as it is.

“Hey, it’s okay, Helena,” Harley says, and then she’s got her arms around Helena in a tight hug. “You’re okay. Breathe with me.”

It’s hard, but she does what Harley tells her, and after a few minutes the tears have dried up and Helena’s heart rate is approaching normalcy once again. “S-sorry,” she mumbles.

“What for? That was a _huge_ thing you just did, tellin’ me about this.” Harley gives her a squeeze. “What’s your kitty’s name?”

“Pusheen,” Helena answers, and she realizes at that moment that it actually feels really, really good to be held like this and that she also doesn’t want it to stop, like, ever.

“Good name, I like it. How’d you come up with it?”

“I didn’t. That’s just her name.” Helena angles Pusheen closer to Harley’s face so that she can see the tag.

“Oh! Cool.” Harley gives her a squeeze, but not too hard. “Okay, now, I really do think we oughta go to bed. It’s _super_ late.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, too tired now to comment further.

Harley lets go and just like, _dives_ onto the bed before Helena can react. “ _Ooh_! This bed is really comfy!” She pats the empty space next to her. “C’mon, I won’t bite.”

Helena sits down on the edge of the bed, still clutching Pusheen in one arm. She sets her phone on the bedside table so it’s out of the way but doesn’t touch the purple pacifier, a wave of reluctance washing over her. It’s one thing for Harley to _say_ she doesn’t mind, but it’s another thing entirely for her to see it actually happening.

Harley picks it up and twirls the paci around her index finger by its loop, like a gunslinger. “Oh, it’s got _glitter_!” she cries, and holds it up to the lamp on her own bedside table. “I didn’t know they made ‘em with glitter. This is _so_ fuckin’ cute, Helena.”

Helena feels herself turning crimson, and she holds the plushie closer. “Um. Yeah. I. I gotta blue one too. Came in a pack together.” Oh, jesus. She’s starting to slip down into headspace now, and _hard_.

“Yeah? We’ll have to see what other colors they’ve got.” Harley smiles.

Helena wants to ask what Harley means by that, but just as suddenly as she’d started playing with it, Harley stops and puts it into Helena’s free hand. “Here ya go, kiddo.”

“It’s…” Helena’s tired of trying to even pretend she’s making an effort toward eye contact. “It’s okay?”

“Of course it is. I want you to _sleep_ , Helena, and you’re not gonna get any if you’re thinkin’ about havin’ it all night long but holdin’ back just ‘cause I’m here.”

Helena nods, but it still takes her a moment to build up the courage to pop it into her mouth.

“Oh my _god_ you are so fuckin’ cute!” Harley fairly crows. “I literally _can’t_.”

“Am not.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Mmmf.” Helena scowls.

Harley laughs, then reaches for one of the blankets in the tangled nest to shake it out. “Lie down, cupcake,” she commands. “I’m gonna tuck you in.”

 _Cupcake_? she wonders, but she does as Harley says because it’s just easier to. Harley does it like a pro, at least as far as Helena can remember (her own mother had stopped doing it when she was six), and soon they’re snuggled up together with the lights off, just as Harley had said they would do from the first. Helena has to admit it feels good. Her apartment really is kind of chilly, for one thing, and for another, Harley gives _amazing_ snuggles.

It also, Helena realizes, feels like something else: _safety_.

She wakes up the next morning to warm sunshine filtering through the blinds, a mercifully dry bed, and Harley wrapped around her like a slice of prosciutto on melon, running her fingers along Helena’s spine. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Helena smiles. She, too, likes repetition, especially when it produces such a nice sensation.

“Still think I’m cool?” Helena wants to know, without removing the pacifier first, so it comes out kind of slushy.

Harley makes a noise that sounds a lot like a snort. “ _Fuck_ no.”

Helena laughs too. “Didn’t think so.”

“But you _are_ cute as hell.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She buries her face in the hollow of Harley’s neck and smiles. “I’ll take it.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea in the middle of the night and it wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. I have plans to write more of Helena and Harley ageplaying - and as a couple - if there's interest! Let me know what you think.
> 
> Many, many special thanks to [The_Secret_Life_of_Tea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea/pseuds/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea) for his beta read. Couldn't have done this without you - for so many reasons and more.


End file.
